


It's called Fate (and it's Great?)

by Islanderlass



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriages, Big Gay Love Story, Blood Traitor Backstory, Even Molly because you know how she loves to be right, F/M, Gen, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pureblood Culture, Wizarding Style, and everyone gets a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2019-10-30 21:28:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17836493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Islanderlass/pseuds/Islanderlass
Summary: The moniker Blood Traitor implies that an individual somehow betrayed their own kin. What if Arthur’s status had absolutely nothing to do with his Muggle obsession? What if his own blood labelled him as such?In 1968, Arthur Weasley did the unexpected, and evaded a Betrothal Contract his parents had pinned their hopes and dreams for him entirely upon.In 2003, with Molly’s death looming large, Arthur realizes that sometimes, you can’t avoid fate. Or Malfoys.





	1. The past is present

**Author's Note:**

> The canon explanation of Blood Traitor never made much sense to me. If it was merely someone who liked Muggles, or had anything to do with Muggleborn, nearly everyone would one, thus it wouldn't be nearly the insult people seem to think it is. But...given the Victorian-esque nature of Wizarding Britain, maybe it was the sort of public humiliation a family could hold over a wayward child's head, much like how Sirius was blasted off the Tapestry. Arthur is a Weasley, though, and like Sirius, and his sons, he'd never let something like parental disapproval slow him down.

Arthur crumpled the letter up in his hand. Classy, Lucius, he thought. So classy to wait until Molly was on her death bed, and then have your lawyer send a missive like this. You bastard.

 

“What is it, Pop?” Bill asked, worried.

 

“Yes, Arthur,” said Molly, her voice faint. “What is it?”

 

“A letter from a certain barrister,” said Arthur coldly. “Three guesses as to whom he represents, and the first two don’t count.”

 

“L-lucius,” Molly coughed. Bill wordlessly offered her a glass of water. She thumped her chest, took a sip, and laid back down. 

 

“Mm-hm.”

 

“What’s Malfoy’s barrister want?” Bill asked.

 

“To advise me to bury your Mum in a pauper’s grave, with no headstone, so I don’t bring shame to the Malfoys. Fuck ‘em.” He set fire to the letter.

 

“What?” Bill stared at him, appalled.

 

“Maybe you should do it,” wheezed Molly. “If it’ll appease Lucius and his parents. I’ll be dead, Arthur, and I won’t know, or care, where my body ends up.”

 

“Mum,” said Bill, blanching. “Don’t talk such nonsense.”

 

“I’m not doing it,” snapped Arthur.

 

“Y—you don’t understand, Billy,” whispered Molly. “Artie…I want you to be happy, love. Promise me—promise you’ll try, with Lucius.”

 

“Molly,” said Arthur. “Molly, I can’t. He—he never wanted me, not really, and he’s just doing this to be petty. Because he can. Because we’re both trapped.”

 

“Think he’s lonely,” said Molly. “Think you’re wrong, Artie. Who wouldn’t want you? Promise…” She broke into a fit of deep, rattling coughs. “Please, Artie?” She gurgled.

 

“I promise, love,” said Arthur tiredly. “I never could win a fight with you.” He patted Molly’s hand. His wife’s eyes rolled back in her head, and Margaret Prewett Weasley died half past one in the afternoon, in the presence of her husband and their eldest son. 

 

That night, after the rest of the family had left, Bill and Charlie sat him down at Shell Cottage’s kitchen table and forced him to eat a bowl of soup.

 

“I’m not hungry,” said Arthur listlessly, stirring his soup.

 

“Yeah, you are,” said Charlie. “And we won’t have you faint during the service tomorrow.”

 

“Besides, we need to have a talk,” said Bill grimly. “Eat your damn soup like a man, and maybe I’ll let you have a beer. If, that is, Charlie doesn’t squeal to Fleur. He’s going to need booze, bro, and so are we. Seriously. Just this once, don’t rat us out.”

 

“Fine,” Charlie rolled his eyes and got up to rifle through the cold box. “That German shite you drink?”

 

“The one with the highest alcohol content,” said Bill tersely.

 

“Well, then, that’d be the batch of boom-boom I mixed up for the wake.”

 

“Sounds good,” said Arthur hoarsely. “This can’t be put off, William?”

 

“No. It cannot, and it will not.”

 

Charlie thunked the pitcher of boom-boom on the table and went to fetch three glasses. “Sounds serious, boys. What’s up?”

 

“I’m not real sure,” said Bill. “But it’s a doozy, I’m betting. None of the younger kids have this place bugged, do they?

 

“Nah,” said Charlie, pouring them each a glass. He slouched in his chair. “What’s this all about?”

 

  
“Well, Pop?” Bill crossed his arms and stared stonily at their father.

 

Arthur chugged half of his boom-boom. He tore a piece of bread in two, and dipped it into his soup. “When I was eight years of age, my parents Betrothed me to their best friends’ son. In exchange, the family paid my Hogwarts tuition,” he said. He bit into his bread, chewing slowly. “When I was seventeen, instead of meeting my Betrothed and his parents at Kings Cross—we were, I’m sure, about to be herded to the Weaver’s guild for the Tyin’ of the Cords—your mum and I jumped out of the Express near the border of England and Scotland, and made a run for Gretna Green’s blacksmith shop.”

 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” breathed Charlie. “You an’ Mum broke a Betrothal contract?”

 

“Didn’t break it,’’ said Arthur. “I wasn’t, technically, eligible until I stepped off the Express at Kings Cross that year. More like—I put it off, see.”

 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” repeated his son. “If it was a traditional contract—Pop, that means Mum’s death just made you eligible! As long as the other party is unmarried, that is.”

 

“The other chap is a widower,” said Bill grimly. “And he had his lawyer send Dad a letter, requesting Mum be buried in a pauper’s grave. Mum suggested Pop do it!”

 

“Makes sense,” said Charlie, frowning. “I mean—that’s cold. But I can’t imagine the elopement went over well, with anyone.”

 

“No,” agreed Arthur. “My parents—well, that’s why you’ve not met them, and why I never speak of them. That’s where the Blood Traitor bit comes from, y’see. Not only were my Betrothed parents close family friends—it was a mutually beneficial agreement. There was entailed money and land at stake. Don’t think my Betrothed’s parents held it against me, as they were always polite when Molly and I ran into ‘em—but my parents told me I could abandon your mother, and they’d oh so graciously forgive me, or m’wife, m’self, and our future children would be strangers to them. As your Mum was four months pregnant with Bill here, I picked the only possible choice. Never once regretted it. And I won’t regret burying Molly right next to your brother, with the most ostentatious, Prewett-like monument I can find. Maybe I’ll even let Muriel pick it out.”

 

Bill and Charlie laughed a little too loudly at the joke. When they quieted, Charlie poured Arthur more boom boom. “You’re right, we did need booze. So. How’s the other fellow going to take your act of defiance?”

 

“Given that it’s Lucius fucking Malfoy, with all the grace and serenity of Mother Theresa herself, I’m sure.” said Bill. 

 

“What?” Charlie squeaked. “You—you left Malfoy at the altar? What the hell were you thinking, Pop?”

 

“I didn’t think he’d care all that much,” said Arthur tiredly. “He barely paid any attention to me—I was three years younger than him, and not an athlete, or handsome, or accomplished in the societal sense. But he took it hard, and it was a long, long six years until he met and courted little Narcissa Black. Left me alone, after that, mostly, because she wasn’t about to let him embarrass her in front of the other society wives.”

 

“Malfoys, Pop,” said Charlie despairingly. “Slytherins! They don’t like to lose.”

 

“I know, I know.”

 

“You’re going to go through with it, aren’t you,” said Bill.

 

“Yup. Your Mum and I, we had a good run. And at least life with Lucius won’t be boring. Dunno how I’m going to explain it to the kids, though.”

 

“You’ll let us take care of that,” said Bill firmly. “Charlie, Fleur and I will tell them what’s what, right, bro?”

 

“Sure,” said Charlie, cracking his knuckles. “I’ll enjoy thumping some sense into the little morons. You tell Lucius and Draco that, like it or not, I’ve got their backs.”

 

“Oh, Merlin,” said Arthur. “For the love of all that’s holy, don’t provoke George or your sister. Please, son.”

 

“Gin gets a free pass, because of the whole Diary business,” said Charlie. “And George actually likes Draco. I don’t think he’ll be a problem at all.”

 

“Gin gets a free pass because you’re terrified of her,” muttered Bill. “She’ll probably be the first to bond with Lucius. Just imagine: Mr. Lucius Malfoy, and his lovely daughter Miss Ginevra Malfoy, started the riot yesterday night at the Quidditch Playoffs. They, of course, suffered no injuries. Pity the same thing can’t be said for three quarters of the crowd.”

 

“Don’t even joke,” mumbled Arthur.

 

“Yeah,” said Charlie. “I don’t think the world is quite ready for Malfoy daughters. So, what are the terms of the Contract, Pop? When will you need to finalize it?”

 

“Within thirty days,” said Arthur. “No use puttin’ it off. I’ll stop by the Ministry and talk it over with Lucius tomorrow.”

 

“That’s so soon,” said Charlie. “I’m sorry, Pop.”

 

“I know, son. I know.” I’m going to be stoic, thought Arthur. I’m going to be a Malfoy, gods help me.


	2. The Weaving of the Cords, and other fairy tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No man has a good enough memory to be a successful liar. (Abraham Lincoln)

Lucius knew something was going on, even before someone knocked on his door, because all activity in the outer office ceased. The international Affairs Department always, always hummed with activity, and when it suddenly stopped—well, that meant Someone had entered. He decided to ignore it. If it was a diplomat, his boss would no doubt introduce the fellow. If it was a celebrity—how tiresome. If it was a war hero, it wasn’t likely they’d be looking for Lucius, even though the DMLE fully exonerated him of all charges post war.

 

Someone tapped on his door. He heaved a sigh and stood. “Come in!”

 

Arthur Weasley slipped into the office, shutting the door behind him. “Lucius,” he said softly. “Sorry to bother you at work, but I asked your departmental secretary for your home floo this morning. Quite correct to turn me down flat, but I was hoping to avoid—er—that.” He gestured at the door.

 

Lucius rolled his eyes. “Then you shouldn’t have come in today,” he snapped. “You know what the Ministry is like!” Belatedly, he realized that wasn’t quite the thing to say to a man who had buried his wife that morning. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake! Sit down, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

 

“That’s quite unnecessary,” said Arthur, sinking down into the leather armchair before Lucius’ desk. “I have no intention on taking up much of your time, as I’m sure you’ve got important business to attend. I merely wanted to know when you wished to finalize the papers.”

 

“The papers?” Lucius poured hot water over a cachet of Assam. He considered asking the man if he wanted cream and sugar, but then decided Arthur looked a bit wan and sugar could only help. He put two heaping spoons of sugar into the cup and handed it to Arthur.

 

Then he noticed that the other man was staring at him as if he’d lost his mind. Oh, fuck. What was he missing? But he and Arthur only served together on the International Trade Committee, and for the life of him he couldn’t recall any paperwork pertaining to that. “I do beg your pardon, Arthur,” he said cautiously. “It’s been one thing after another this week, and the papers quite slipped my mind. We can, of course, discuss the matter after your bereavement leave has finished.” There! Now he could spend a few days fishing for information on whatever it was the chap was talking about, and Weasley would be none the wiser.

 

“Lucius, please don’t stall,” said Arthur, running his hand over his thinning red hair. “I won’t be any more eager to discuss this after a week. I know you aren’t any happier about it, but I want it done.”

 

“Why are you in such a rush?” Lucius hedged.

 

“Why am I in such a rush?” Arthur glared at him. “Me? Lucius, we have thirty days to fulfill a fucking contract that I didn’t write, and that you will, I’m sure, rub in m’face until the day you lay m’bones to rest in the Malfoy Mausoleum.”

 

Lucius blanched. He now knew what Weasley meant. The Betrothal Contract between their families; the unbreakable, inviolable Contract that had became valid the moment Molly Prewett exhaled for the last time. “Ah,” he said weakly. “Those papers.”

 

“Yes. Those papers. You cannot possibly have forgotten.”

 

“No-o, of course not,” he drawled, He had forgotten, though. Oh gods. It seemed like it had been a lifetime ago. “Ah—I’m merely surprised that you approached me so soon.” Or at all.

 

“Yes, yes,” said Arthur. “With m’wife not even cold in the ground an’ all. Spare me the fake outrage, Lucius. Your parents—Hell, my parents—never considered her m’lawful wife anyway. Hell, your lawyer even tried to tell me I should bury her in a pauper’s grave, so as not to reflect badly on you. But we raised seven children through two wars, and I’ll be damned—damned, I tell you, if I can’t bury her with our Fred.”

 

“My lawyer?”

 

“Y’know—old Baxter.”

 

“Baxter is dead, Arthur.”

 

“Well, it was a Baxter, anyway.”

 

“No doubt his tit of a nephew,” sneered Lucius. “The nerve of that man!”

 

“So you didn’t order him to send out such a letter?”

 

“Arthur, even if that had crossed my mind, which it most certainly did not, I’m hardly going to start our…union…by mortally offending your friends and family.”

 

“Well, that makes me feel slightly better,” said Arthur, sipping his tea. “I’m willin’ to fulfill my end of the bargain, y’know, but I loved Molly, Lucius. I’ll not pretend our life, and our family, and our—our—losses— never happened, merely to spare you embarrassment.”

 

“I’d never ask that of you,” said Lucius. “Current lawyer is Mac Wood. He hasn’t seen the contract, actually, because—well, because if I thought anyone would live to be a hundred and fifty, it’d be your Molly. But—perhaps, if you like, we can go over it with him, and see if he can’t find a loophole.”

 

“I appreciate the sentiment, but again—I just want this done. And I’ve got it memorized, Lucius, nearly word for word. If there was a loophole, other than suicide, I’d’ve found it by now. I’m not killing myself, so don’t get your hopes up.”

 

“Suicide isn’t a loophole,” hissed Lucius. “And my gods, man, don’t let me ever hear you say that again!”

 

“Yes, of course, Malfoys would never soil their precious reputation in such a sordid fashion. They only misjudge their dose of sleeping potion. Silly me.”

 

Not what he’d meant, and he wanted to break Arthur’s nose for alluding to Narcissa in such a way. But he’d known Arthur far too long to try to argue when the man was clearly winding himself into a snit. “We’ll undertake the Weaving of the Cords tonight, if you like,” he said. “That way, we’ve a few weeks to deal with—housekeeping, so to speak.”

 

Arthur smiled weakly. “Thank you, sir. May we form a covenant, and together meet every situation in life.”

 

“Whether that situation be Joyful or sorrowful, Magical or mundane, peaceful or chaotic,” recited Lucius automatically. Arthur nodded, placed the tea cup on Lucius’ desk, and left the office even more quietly than he had entered. Lucius buried his face in his hands. How had he forgotten about that damn contract?

* * *

 

At seven that night, he met Arthur on the Weaver’s Guild. The other man looked even more exhausted and wan than he had in Lucius’ office. “Are you all right?” Asked Lucius. “Apologies—of course, you are not. What I meant is—“

 

“I look like shite,” said Arthur. “Yes, I know, Lucius. It’s been a bloody long day. It won’t be over, either, until we do this! So please, can we just get on with it?”

 

Lucius nodded curtly and rang the bell. Shortly after, they were ushered into the Master Weaver’s workshop. Ordinarily, Lucius would’ve felt a thrill at the sight of Ritual Cords, laid out on the table. He and Narcissa had been barred from undertaking the full rites because Narcissa could not usurp Arthur as the Betrothed, even though Arthur had eloped. Not that Narcissa had cared all that much—she’d been far more focused on the modern and more ostentatious trappings of weddings. Lucius wanted to ask questions, so many questions— but Arthur was grieving, and it seemed unseemly to do anything more than explain the situation in reserved tones to the Weaver.

 

The stout, solemn woman sighed. “I see. I normally dislike performing the Ritual in such a case, but you are, after all, longstanding acquaintances, and I do not wish to add to the stress of the situation at hand. Arthur Weasley, is it in your best interest to submit to such a contract?”

 

“Yes, Mistress.”

 

“Lucius Malfoy—do you give me your word that you will honor the spirit of the Ritual, and do your utmost to weave this man and his kin into the tapestry of life?”

 

“Yes, Mistress.”

 

“Arthur Weasley, do you so pledge to carry on? To not deliberately fray the cords tethering you to your Betrothed, your family, and to life?”

 

“Mistress, I do not recall learning that one,” said Arthur awkwardly.

 

“That, sir, is because I just made it up. I will not ask you to lie. I will not ask you to betray your wife’s memory. All that I ask, sir, is that you live, if not for your Betrothed, then for your children. I weave no cords for the dead.”

 

“I so pledge, Mistress.”

 

“So mote it be. Face each other, hands together but not touching.” They held up their hands and she carefully used their hands as a loom, to braid the cords together. Then she nimbly pulled the cords off Arthur’s fingers, and tightened the braid into a bracelet, which she tied around Lucius’ wrist. She then repeated the action with Lucius’ cords, tying the resultant bracelet around Arthur’s wrist. The red haired man stared down at it, as if in a trance. 

 

The Weaver looked at Lucius, who shrugged. “Mr. Weasley,” she said gently. “Do you have any questions?”

 

“No, Mistress.”

 

“May I call one of your sons?” 

 

Arthur jerked his head up. “No! Please don’t!”

 

“I would like a private word with your Betrothed,” said the Weaver. “Do you wish to wait for him to escort you home? It would be no trouble.”

 

“No, no. Simply dead on my feet,” said Arthur. “I’ll see m’self out. Er—good evening, sir. Mistress Weaver.”

 

After he’d disappeared down the hall, she fixed Lucius with a cool look. “That one is in a bad way.”

 

“Don’t you think I know that,” snapped Lucius. “I forgot all about the contract until he showed up at my office today. He’s right in that we can’t run from it, and he’s very likely correct there are no loopholes. I—I always thought the Ritual of the Cords would be a joyful occurrence, but instead, my betrothed does not even wish for his children to know where he is, let alone witness it, and I feel like I’m grave robbing.” He wrapped his fingers around the bracelet, holding his arm to his chest as if to protect it.

 

“Oh, dear,” said the Weaver unhappily. “Well. Marriages have been built from far less of a base. Look. If, someday, love flows into your union, you can bring him back here, and I’d be happy to weave you a blessing rug. And we will sit, and drink cider, and you can ask me all of the questions you wanted to ask today.”

 

“Thank you, Mistress.” Lucius swallowed around the lump in his throat. He couldn’t imagine ever taking her up on such an offer, but—it was nice to dream.

* * *

Lucius divided the Indian takeaway onto two plates. He carried them over to the table of the warm kitchen of his Cotswold cottage. “Draco. Open the bottle of Cabernet, if you please.”

 

His son tapped the bottle with his wand. “ _Corkio_! Dad, I’m surprised at you, old bean, drinking such a fine vintage on a work night. And with the finest of fast food also. Are we celebrating, or giving up entirely on our facade of enlightened gentlepeople?”

 

“It has been a very long day, and I need the wine for the conversation I’m about to have with you,” said Lucius. “So sit dow, pipe down, and let me drink, all right?”

 

Draco’s face became serious. “What’s this about, Dad?”

 

“In a moment,”muttered Lucius. The two men dug into the food, and Lucius drank half a glass of the obscenely expensive wine. He looked across the table at his son. Draco was—well, he loved the boy. After all that had passed, he didn’t know if he could bear it if his son walked away because of this. “Draco?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You know how you’ve always wanted a large family?”

 

“Sure.” 

 

“That may not be as out of the cards as you’ve always believed. I—I need you to listen. Truly listen, son. You’re the only one that matters, and I cannot bear to lose you over this, but—well, I know life was difficult. After the war.”

 

Draco carefully put down his fork. “You’re frightening me, Dad.”

 

“I want you to understand that I have no choice,” said Lucius quietly. “I want you to understand that, before I explain the situation.”

 

Draco stared at him, concerned. “All right. I understand.” He took a large gulp of wine.

 

“Many, many years ago,” Lucius began, “My parents Betrothed me to a child of a friend of theirs. This was done when we were very young, you understand, and it was done to satisfy various entailments, and as a method of insurance. They were all ICW, you see. I was three years older than my Betrothed, and as I grew older, I grew to care for him, but my parents asked me to give him a chance to grow up, so I left him alone at Hogwarts. It was easy, as we were in different houses, and—and I was curt with him in the hallways, because I was jealous that his friends could spend so much time with him.”

 

He paused to eat a bit more vindaloo. “Anyway. In seventh year, I received an offer for the ICW Hit Wizards. I asked my father if he thought, perhaps, my Betrothed would choose the same career path. I did not like the idea of keeping secrets from my spouse. He said he’d talk it over with his friends, and he came back from that discussion having decided that they would test my Betrothed. If he passed all of the tests, he’d receive an offer to work alongside me. I don’t know what the tests were, exactly, but—I received a few letters from my Betrothed that indicated he was confused over what my family expected from him. I advised him that we expected him to uphold the Contract in a manner worthy of a Malfoy spouse.”

 

“You couldn’t tell him about the tests because you were afraid of spoiling his chances,” said Draco. “And so you answered in the vaguest way possible—one that that he might have easily have misconstrued. Oh, Dad.”

 

“I know,” said Lucius. “I know. If I had had the experiences that I do now, I would’ve offered to take him out to Hogsmeade, and at least reassured him of my feelings. But—I threw myself into my training because I desperately wanted to prove myself. He was—he was smart, you know. So very smart. I wanted to be able to keep up with him, and I wanted more than anything in the world to protect him. I gathered from my parents that his parents were increasingly unhappy about his responses to the tests. They didn’t believe him to be a good fit for the Agency, and they asked me to consider an alternative career. I refused—I said that I was sure he would excel if given a chance. My parents asked them leave their son alone to enjoy his final year of school, and that we’d pick him up at Kings Cross to discuss matters with him. I—I wrote these cheery little notes to him, all year long, and he always replied politely. He refused to even refer to the future, but he’d include little snippets about his friends, and his schoolwork, and quidditch.”

 

“So, June 15th rolled around, and you met him at the station.”

 

“No.”

 

“What?”

 

“He never showed up, Draco. We waited until the last stragglers were off the train, and we searched it, just in case he’d fallen asleep, or ill. My father reached out to the Hosgmeade Station. They had seen him get on the train, just as expected.”

 

“The plot thickens,” Draco said excitedly. “Was he kidnapped?”

 

“Son.”

 

“Well—you were ICW, and wealthy, to boot.”

 

“I suppose it’s a reasonable question,” admitted Lucius, sighing. “But no. My father took me with him to speak to his parents. My mother went up to the school to ask the Headmaster and his Head of House if they’d heard anything. His parents had no idea where he’d gone. They said they knew he wasn’t happy—he’d been increasingly miserable over the idea of the contract, and in fact had asked them to break it the summer before seventh year. Well—it couldn’t be broken, not easily, and so they had told him that if he wished to represent himself in the matter, he could, upon graduation. Shortly afterwards, he began to seem happier, and they put it down to the fact they’d backed off and given him autonomy.”

 

“But it wasn’t that,” said Draco. “Because the problem was still there. Let’s see. He must not have killed himself—if he’d done that, he would’ve never boarded the train. But that would’ve been the most apropos end to such a tale.”

 

“You only think that because your mother was a Black,” muttered Lucius. “Blacks adore tragedy.”

 

“At least they’re good at it,” said Draco. “Malfoys prefer happy endings, I know, but you’re terrible at them. Just awful. You won’t date, or even get a pet, and when was the last time that you went out with your friends, hm?”

 

“I am an adult,” said Lucius sharply. “I have a full time, demanding job, and—and—“ He realized that he was squeezing the wine glass far too hard. He put it down gently and collected himself. “I miss your mother,” he said quietly. He owned this cottage because it had been her idea to leave the manor. Then just before they’d moved in, she misjudged the amount to Dreamless Sleep that she took to combat nightmares about the Dark Lord’s time in residence, and had simply never woken up from her slumber. The cottage—well, it was a blessing,because it had been filled with possibilities of a happily ever after instead of memories. It wouldn’t have been his choice, but he’d grown to love it.

 

“I know. I’m sorry.”

 

“Anyway,” said Lucius. “My mother, meanwhile, had gotten lucky. Well. At least she’d made more progress than us. At first, Minerva refused to answer any of her questions.”

 

“Ah-ha! A Gryffindor!”

 

“Indeed. It turns out that Minerva had heard that he’d been Betrothed. She’d simply had no idea that it was to me. She’d thought, you see, based on everyone’s behavior, that the Contract had been between him, and a fellow Gryffindor—a female year mate who she’d seen increasingly in his company.”

 

“Oh, very nice. The forbidden love interest! Wait, when you say everyone…”

 

“My betrothed’s friends, the girl’s friends, the girl’s family, the whole damn house of Gryffindor—oh, and lest we forget who Minerva always believed to be above it all—Albus Dumbledore.”

 

“Oh, fuck.”

 

“Concisely put,” said Lucius moodily. “I mean—language, young man.”

 

“Right. Sorry, I really meant to say—golly gee, I can hardly believe that the jolly old professor would ever muck about in another family’s personal affairs.”

 

Lucius snorted. “My mother expressed herself in—er—similar terms. So she and Minerva cornered the old fellow in his ivory tower and he spun a story of true love, and star crossed lovers. The girl in question was the only daughter of close friends of his, and she’d come to him and begged him to help them elope. Her parents had told her that my betrothed wasn’t hers to have, because they knew something of the entailments, and she thought they were insulting my betrothed. Saying he wasn’t good enough for their daughter. She decided to prove them all wrong, and Albus, unfortunately, decided that it was his duty to help them out. He supplied them with disguises, canvassed for a likely spot to jump from the train, and bought tickets at the adjacent station, destination Gretna Green. The love birds showed up the very next day, at the Ministry, handfasted. Nothing anyone could do, short of attempting to dissuade him from standing by his wife. My parents were heart broken, but they could easily afford any financial consequences. His parents were furious. Or, according to my father, more likely terrified. The entailments had been necessary to provide him with a prosperous future. They gambled on the fact that he would break, when faced with the threat they would never acknowledge his wife as such, or the children as their descendants—well, he didn’t break. The girl’s kin and their allies rallied around the lovebirds. I don’t think he ever spoke to his parents again.”

 

“Is it terribly gauche of me to admit I quite admire his style? I mean—it’s both ruthless and so very, very Gryffindor. Do, please, tell me that they got their happy ending.”

 

“As much of a happy ending as anyone does, outside of a fairytale. I watched his children grow up, and—it hurt, but I rejoiced for him. I eventually put aside any hope that he would relent, and I met your mother at the Yule Ball of 1978. She wasn’t him, but she wanted me, and that was enough. Her parents were eager to marry their youngest, and last, daughter off, and the Betrothal was not as off-putting as it might have been, given my money and the fact that their eldest child had eloped the previous year with a Muggle Born. My parents were leery of me marrying a Black, but Narcissa was never—extreme—and she was more than willing to help the ICW infiltrate the Death Eaters.”

 

“And I know everything that happened after that,” said Draco. “It’s a lovely tale, Dad, but why bring it up now?”

 

“Because the Contract wasn’t broken,” said Lucius. “It was merely suspended, due to the fact my Betrothed was never truly eligible. He hand fasted before his parents acknowledged him as an adult. I knew, theoretically, that it could bind us again, if our wives died. It just seemed so very unlikely, you know, that we’d outlive them both. So I put it out of my mind, years ago. And today, after my Betrothed laid his wife to rest, he showed up at my office wishing to know when I wanted to take care of the paperwork. Because, you see, the Contract requires that we bond in the traditional manner within one month of both parties becoming eligible.”

 

Horror dawned on Draco’s face. “Arthur Weasley,” he breathed. “Oh, no. What did you do?”

 

Lucius silently rolled up his sleeve, so that his son could see the Weaver’s cords twined around his wrist.

 

Draco’s face crumpled and he came around the table to hug Lucius tightly. “Dad, I—I don’t know what to tell you, other than—I hope you get your happy ending. Just this once.”

 

“I hope so too, son.” Lucius blinked rapidly. He wasn’t going to cry. No, he was going to be strong—as strong as Arthur.


	3. It's the fear of the unknown that'll kill you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur decides to be Switzerland. The DMLE promptly revolts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's always a trope in Marriage Law fics where the contract is enforced by magic. Same with Goblet of Fire.
> 
> But...I always thought it made very little sense that anyone could be bound by a contract they didn't sign. Coerced, yes. There are plenty of ways to coerce someone without magic. But a contract that actually physically controls what you think and do...probably not. Too complex, and either ultimately ineffective or too effective.

 

 

Bill and Fleur were waiting for Arthur in the den at Shell Cottage when he floo’d home. “Well?” Asked Bill.

 

Arthur wordlessly pulled up his sleeve to show them the cords.

 

“Oh, Arthur! Why did you not tell us?” Cried Fleur, She guided him over to the couch and fixed him a cup of tea. “We wanted to go with you; we would’ve loved to take you both out for a dinner afterwards.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t,” said Arthur sadly. “He just wanted it over and done, y’see.” He took a sip of tea. “Well, I wasn’t expecting him to be in a celebratory mood, I s’pose.

 

“Did you ask about the grave?” Bill put an arm around his wife, his face concerned.

 

“That would be the one good bit of news,” said Arthur. “Apparently, the original lawyer is long dead. The nephew sent the letter without family permission, and if I had to guess by the look on Lucius’ face, Baxter the younger will very much regret taking initiative. The Malfoy’s current fellow is Mac Wood, and he’s never seen the contract. Lucius said that he’d never thought that the Contract would come to past—that surely Molly’d outlive the both of us.”

 

“Mac would,” said Bill thoughtfully. “Didn’t Perce go to school with a Wood? What sort of Barrister is Mac?”

 

“Yes, Mac’s Ollie Wood’s father. And he’s a damn good barrister. It’s likely positive news for me—the contract has some codicils that could make my life exceedingly difficult. Mac’s clever, but ethical, and hopefully he’ll at least talk Lucius out of enforcing the worst bits, if only for the sake of appearances. But I will say Lucius appears to be well aware that insulting your Mum would not be the best way to start our union.”

 

“It would definitely be not wise,” said Fleur indignantly. “My parents, for one, have said they will support you in any way you will allow.”

“Thank you, my dear,” said Arthur.

 

“May I see the contract?” Asked Bill. “I’m no barrister, of course,but I’d like to see what we’re up against.”

 

Arthur pulled an old, stained, bundle of parchment out of his robes. “I thought you might ask,” he said tiredly. “Kept it at Gringotts luckily—Pa kept it in a box on the mantle, just to remind me, you know, of who owned me.”

 

Bill silently unfolded it and read through it. “Fairly standard, and open to interpretation until you get to the codicils,” he said at last. “Why are those all written in different inks?”

 

Arthur shrugged. “Beats me. First was from right before I entered school and the rest were added between my fifth and seventh years. Never actually talked to the Malfoys about any of them, and I reckon I should’ve—just didn’t think my father would make those up.”

 

“If he did, he was extraordinarily cruel,” said Bill in a hushed voice. “Not a man I would’ve wanted as family.”

 

“On my worst days I think he wanted me to kill m’self, because I was a burden, and on m’best days, I think he and Ma just needed the money so badly they lost sight of my welfare,” said Arthur sadly. “Y’need to understand—Lucius is not his parents. The Lucius I knew wasn’t hateful, or dark, and his parents were—well, they were wonderful. I’m sorry that I never could live up to what they wanted, because I loved them, son.”

 

“What are the codicils?” Fleur asked. 

 

“First: Dad can’t play quidditch, as he could get hurt. Second: Dad can’t take Ancient Runes as an elective, because he mustn’t embarrass Lucius. Third: Dad must consult the Malfoys on all expenses pertaining to academic and personal pursuits. Fourth: Never be alone with a member of the opposite sex. Fifth: Malfoys have final say over trips, as Dad must not embarrass them by doing anything too common. Sixth: Malfoys have final say over where Dad lives after graduation. Seventh: Malfoys have final say over Dad’s chosen career, where he works, and whether he works at all.”

 

“Barbarians!” shrieked Fleur. “Bastards! I shall set them on fire! I shall rip their guts from their bellies and feed it to ze Hogwarts’ thestrals.” Her hair was whipping and send off sparks; her nails had grown slightly longer and sharper.

 

“Calm down, honey,” said Bill soothingly. “Some of it isn’t even enforceable, I don’t think.”

 

“And much of it doesn’t matter, now,” said Arthur. “There are rarely direct, magical consequences for contracts like this, and I never understood why my father chose those specific codicils. A few are just…odd. For example, I had relatively little interest in Runes, and no intention of taking the NEWTs course. I did, out of spite, and because Amos wanted a study partner. And Lucius never cared that I got better grades than him—actually, he was quite proud of my OWL scores. Then, too, I had no interest in girls, and no close female friends. Ended up fooling around with your Mum precisely because of that codicil.”

 

“Perhaps your father just enjoyed picking fights,” said Bill.

 

“Zat is absurd,” hissed Fleur.

 

“No, he might be right,” said Arthur. “I buckled under a lot, probably too much, and that’s often when Pa would be at his worst.” He rubbed his temples. “The only thing I’m worried about, really, is the Manor and m’job. I never liked the Manor much as a child—too formal—and now it’s got real bad memories. Can’t imagine Lucius would make me quit m’job, but I do make him angry, especially on the joint committee, and he might be tempted.”

 

“Well, we’ll ask about the Manor,” said Bill. “I don’t think that’s unreasonable. And perhaps you could lay low, for a bit.”

 

“Ye-es,” said Arthur thoughtfully. “I could be Switzerland, and have no opinion whatsoever. Might be a relief to everyone in the DMLE!”

 

* * *

_Around 3PM, the following day_

 

Lucius took a deep breath and looked at himself in the mirror of the loo that was closest to Conference Room 13. “You can do this, my friend,” he said in a strong voice. “Surely Weasley will be in a better mood today. Wasn’t you at all, last night—his wife had just died, he was on his feet all day, and— and—“

 

He paused, stymied. Of course it didn’t help that he’s being forced into marrying me, he thought sadly. That, I’m sure, his family is in hysterics over this. Even if Arthur and I grow to be civil. well—I’ll never be welcome at their Burrow, and I’ll never hold the grandchildren. Always be on the outside, I will. Can’t blame them, of course, because even if the DMLE had told the truth about my role in the war, well, some of their classmates and friends died in the cellars of the Manor. 

 

“No,” he shook his head vigorously and pointed at himself. “Positivity, sir, you promised Draco!” Besides, maybe Arthur won’t even be at work today. No one would blame him if he didn’t show up.

 

“Nonsense,” he muttered. “Stop lying to yourself. Man’s worse than you. If anything, at least this’ll give Draco another parent to cluck over.”

 

He splashed some water on his face, and then strode confidently down to Thirteen, where the Interdepartmental Committee on International Imports was about to commence their biweekly meeting.

 

Amos Diggory and Liam Perkins were arguing loudly when Lucius walked in.

 

“—don’t give a tinker’s damn about flying carpet confiscation, Amos! You don’t understand! Flint is this close to snapping. You need to talk to him!”

 

“I really don’t,” snarled Amos Diggory. “Because I don’t want to know, Liam. I could guess, but if it is what I think it is, you don’t want to know either.”

 

Lucius took a seat next to Gawain Robards. “What the hell are they going on about?” Lucius asked in a low voice. 

 

“Flint and Weasley,” muttered Robards. “Today’s been a bloody train wreck. Bones actually swore at a junior auror today. Kingsley locked himself in his office and cried at lunch. Lovegood came in to harass the front desk, took one look at Weasley, and ran like the hounds of hell were after him. Perkins wants Amos to talk to Weasley, and Amos refused. We should just cancel this meeting. Now, before someone dies, either at Flint’s hand, or Flint himself, from fury.”  


“That tells me absolutely nothing except that the DMLE is in a tizzy over something,” said Lucius irritably.

 

“You’ve got to see it to believe it,” said Robards. “Shh. Here they come.”

 

Flint and Weasley came into the room with the rest of the committee. Lucius had to admit Robards wasn’t overstating the situation. Flint glared blackly at Arthur as if he might be able to set the man on fire if he really, really tried. Arthur, meanwhile, seemed completely unaware. He looked far better than he had the previous night, Lucius noted, relieved, but he avoided Lucius’s eyes and fidgeted with his sleeves.

 

“All right,” said Bones, as everyone got settled. “International Affairs, it may be in your best interests if we tabled the meeting—“

 

“Hardly,” said Lucius’ boss, Minister Gulliver. “We’re already running behind, Madam. Stop wasting our time.”

 

“Fine,” said Amelia unhappily. “I cede the floor to you, sir.”

 

“Right, well, first up: Arthur Weasley. Sir, do you have the relevant research that we discussed last time?”

 

“Yes,” said Arthur.

 

“”If you would please summarize your opinion on the possible importation of magical carpets.”

 

The DMLE members seemed to all suck in their breaths and lean forward simultaneously.

 

“No.”

 

“Excellent—Wait, what?”

 

“I can give you my findings,but I no longer have an opinion.”

 

“Er…” Gulliver pause, befuddled. It was well known that Weasley always had an opinion. “Without your learned opinion, sir, we will be forced to delay the carpet discussion.”

 

“Until when? Because I’m not plannin’ to have any policy related options for a very long time.”

 

“For the love of Merlin, Weasley, just give him your opinion,” snarled Flint. “It was a mildly funny joke at nine this morning, and I’m man enough to admit you got me. But this meeting is important, and this involves another division entirely, so stop mucking around.”

 

“I’m not mucking around,” snapped Weasley. “I told you, I can’t have an opinion!”

 

“Why not?” Howled Flint, clutching his salt and pepper curls. 

 

Arthur pushed his sleeves up, revealing the cords tied around his left wrist. “Because in 1958, my parents sold me to another family. Me an’ Molly eloped, because the codicils of the agreement were…extreme. When she died, the contract become valid, and in less than a month, I’ll be married. To a man who has final say over where I work, where I live, and with whom I associate. Flint, I won’t go against my own beliefs, an’ I love m’ job, so please, please, shut up and let me stay employed.”

 

Flint gaped him like a fish. Lucius struggled to keep his own expression bland. What was the fellow talking about? The Contract had no codicils whatsoever.

 

“You’re right, Amos, I didn’t want to know,” said Perkins faintly. “Who is it, Arthur?”

 

“I don’t want to say,” said Arthur. “I’ve a few weeks of freedom left, Perkins, and—and—I just want to be left alone.” 

 

Perkins flinched, as if he were struck.

 

Lucius sighed. “Flint. Mac Wood is exceptionally good at negotiating contracts, and if Weasley here refuses to have an opinion, I’ll pay for him to consult Wood about his rights. It’s entirely possible Weasley simply feels overwhelmed. If not, it would seem that he could be considered to be under undue influence.”

 

Arthur paled. “No!”

 

“Yes,” said Flint. “And Abbott, Lucius, and I are going with you. This afternoon. Wood will do it gratis, if he knows what’s good for him. Weasley, no one, not even parents, can sell a child. Don’t bother objecting—I can’t fire you or allow you to resign under these circumstances.”

 

“Fine,” muttered Arthur. “But it’s damn near impossible to break.”

 

“Codicils can be changed,” said Lucius patiently. “They can be altered, or tossed out entirely. It’s the basic contract that would be very difficult to discard.”

 

“My Betrothed’s family will never agree.”

 

“They will, when Wood, or Abbott, explain the situation,” said Lucius. “I was going to meet with Wood today, anyway.”

 

* * *

 

Flint stalked into Mac Wood’s palatial office and scowled at the receptionist. She ignored him, and continued to paint her nails, for she was well used to Flint’s mercurial temperament. The other men walked more sedately behind him—with the exception of Arthur, who was nearly being dragged between Lucius and Abbott. 

 

“Please don’t do this,” said Arthur. “Please, Flint. C’mon, Abbott, you don’t want to do this either—it’ll just make life so much worse.”

 

“If you believe that,” said Abbott, “We definitely need to have a chat with Wood. I don’t pretend to know what’s going on in your head right now, but I’m your friend, you idiot, and I’m not letting you down now. Lucius, how much of a retainer does Mac charge these days, hm? I’ll pay double whatever it is, if he can talk Arthur down, and treat him with dignity.”

 

“I’d pay ten times that much,” said Lucius grimly. “But as I said, Mac’s expecting me, and he cleared his schedule. Shirley, mind telling him we’re here, and we need to urgently consult him on a matter pertaining to DMLE security?”

 

Shirley Flint nodded graciously. She pressed her palm against the intercom. “Uncle Mac, Dad, and several of his co-conspirators are here. Probably something exceedingly stupid—may I tell Dad that you’ve been urgently called away to Milan fashion week?”

 

Arthur sniggered. “Flint, old boy, you didn’t tell me you had such a charming daughter. May I introduce her to one of my sons?”

 

“I’ve already done the dance of the two backed beast with Charles,” said Shirley. “And unless he’s found where his bullocks ran off to, I think not.”

 

Arthur swallowed another laugh. Flint glowered at Shirley. “You probably frightened them into crawling right into his body,” he snapped. “The poor boy!”

 

“For the love of God, would ye just come in,” snapped Mac Wood’s voice.Shirley waved them towards the office behind her.

 

Mac Wood rose to greet them. “This is rather a surprise, Lucius. I did not anticipate that you’d bring so many companions along.”

 

“Flint’s the one who brought me,” said Lucius. “You see, Mac, Weasley here believes that there are numerous codicils in the Betrothal Contract he is bound by. He’s decided he’s not allowed his own opinions, and that, rather unfortunately, has proved quite the hindrance in the DMLE’s operations.”

 

“I thought people would enjoy me being less opinionated,” mumbled Arthur. “Merlin knows I drive Flint wild from talking too much.”

 

“Flint likes to be driven wild,” said Mac. “He married my sister, and he has six children, all as…unique…as Shirley.”

 

“I heard that,” said Shirley from the front office. 

 

“Yes, because you’ve your ear pressed up against the door,” said Flint.

 

“No, no,” said Mac. “She’s testing some sort of toy from Wheezes today. Supposed to be even more easy than the extendable ears.”

 

“Ah, young George,” said Abbott happily. “I’m so happy he’schosen to continue in the fine tradition.”

 

Flint snorted. “He’s clever, I’ll give him that. Well, that’s neither here nor there. Wood, I’m on m’last nerve, and I need you to take a look at this idiot’s contract before I lose m’mind. Weasley, don’t be an idiot—your opinions, anthem way they make most of our co-workers froth at the maw is truly the highlight of my workday.”

 

Mac Wood carefully looked from man to man. “I can take a stab at it, I suppose,” he said. “Mr. Weasley, do you have your copy of the Contract?”

 

“Yes, sir,” mumbled Arthur. He passed him the sheaf of papers.’

 

Wood examined the paper closely. “Hm. Interesting.”

 

“How so?” Asked Flint.

 

“They don’t match my copy,” said Wood. “Whose handwriting is this, do you know, Arthur?”

 

“My father’s,” said Arthur. 

 

“Hm.”

 

“What do you mean your copy?” Asked Abbott.

 

“The second party had the contract sent over yesterday from his previous law firm.What sort of man was Weasley Senior?”

 

“A right bastard,” muttered Arthur.

 

“That would indeed explain it. Arthur—the contract, the legal one, has no codicils at all.” He offered both copies to Arthur, who shook his head mutely. Lucius reached out and grabbed the codicil contract. 

 

“Lucius,” said Flint. “Do you have any manners—“

 

“Shut up,” said Lucius, scanning Arthur’s contract. “Merlin, Arthur! You thought my parents would do such a thing?”

 

“They wanted a proper Malfoy spouse,” said Arthur miserably. “And y’know I never quite measured up.”

 

“Nonsense,” snapped Abbott.

 

“What?” Chorused Flint and Shirley.

 

“Shut up! Arthur, what the hell are you talking about? My parents loved you!”

 

“No, they didn’t.”

 

“Yes, they did!”

 

“No!”

 

“I’m not going to argue, you stubborn mule, but at least tell me why you thought you never measured up.”

 

“Your father’s comportment lessons. I still could not tell you which fork I should use, and what’s more, I still can’t bring myself to care.”

 

“Neither can Flint, here,” Lucius said. “And Wood is Scottish—he pretends everything can be eaten with chopsticks, and that his nanny was Japanese royalty, when he’s forced to attend state dinners. If you take that up, I may skewer you with chopsticks, but that’s about it.”

 

“It’s more than that,” said Arthur. “Your father, he was always saying Malfoy’s shouldn’t do this, or do that, and—Fuck, Lucius! I can’t play professional quidditch, or nip out to Muggle London for fish and chips, but you can join a merry band of murderers for a little light Muggle torture?”

  
“Oh, dear,” said Abbott faintly.

 

“Oh, shit,” growled Flint.

 

“I don’t mean to imply anything, of course,” said Arthur stiffly. “Kingsley and Amelia said there were extenuating circumstances, and I believe ‘em. But I raided the damn Manor thirty-seven times, and never found a damn thing. So either the DMLE was right, and you were hiding stuff, or someone was using me as a patsy. Or both! And you nearly got my little girl killed, Lucius! And you invited the Dark Lord to use the Manor as Headquarters, which endangered Narcissa. Draco was forced to get the Mark. What would you have done to me? To our heirs?”

 

“Shipped you and our children to Australia,” fumed Lucius. “Made sure Ronald never met Harry bloody Potter, and made sure Bill went to University, and made sure Fred didn’t die! That’s what I would’ve done.”

 

“Er—what?”

 

“He’s ICW, Arthur,” said Abbott. “There weren’t extenuating circumstances. He’s a Hit Wizard, who was able to infiltrate the upper echelons of the Death Eaters with his wife’s help. She had to stay, because getting her out would have probably been more dangerous, given the Lestranges’ paranoia. In any other case—such as if you’d married him—the noncombatants would’ve been far, far away.”

 

Arthur blinked. “Well. That does explain a very great deal.”

 

“And I’m the one who told him to pass the diary off to you,” said Flint guiltily. “He didn’t know what it was, and it sounded like your area of expertise. Remember, I asked you the next Monday if you’d figured out the spell work.”

 

“Oh, hell,” Arthur scratched his head. “Thought you were talkin’ about those French dragon hide bound cookbooks from Liberty Department Store that kept eating pets.”

 

“That explains why you kept going on about proximity to stoves,” said Flint. “I figured you hadn’t eaten lunch, that’s all.”

 

“I probably hadn’t,” said Arthur sheepishly. “You always corner me right before lunch. What are your views on blood purity, then, Lucius?”

 

“I respect magic,” said Lucius. “More than anything, and I don’t give a fig about other folk’s heritage, as long as they too respect magic. I won’t lie, though—I still fundamentally disagree with Dumbledore’s more extreme views about the Statute.”

 

“So do I,” said Arthur. “And I don’t care about your politics, I care about how you’ll receive my children. I blood adopted Hermione Granger when her parents disowned her. Harry is, as far as I’m concerned, my seventh son. You can accept all of us, or none of us.”

 

“All,” said Lucius. “Is that why none of your children attended the Cords Ritual? They thought I’d deny Hermione and Harry their rightful place?”

 

Arthur snorted. “Uh, Lucius, that’d just cause them to show up en masse. No, I—well, I thought you’d want it over with as soon as possible, and I didn’t want them to see us disrespect one of our oldest, and most joyful traditions. The older ones would have been ashamed, and the younger ones might’ve drawn the wrong conclusions.”

 

“Oh,” said Lucius hollowly. “I—I didn’t want it to be like that, Arthur. Never wanted it to be like that. But—you buried Molly, and you weren’t looking well. I thought it would be cruel to—to act in a celebratory manner. Draco was working a late shift at Wheezes—er, no one really knows that, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell your sons—and I didn’t want to jeopardize his job, so I didn’t tell him until afterwards.”

 

“Everyone knows Draco works at Wheezes,” said Arthur. “Although you might want to warn him that if he keeps up his hard work, George is either going to offer him partnership, or lose him to Bill, who wants to open a warding business. They’re dead impressed by him. The only person they fight over more is Perce.”

 

“They can’t have Perce,” said Flint vehemently. “He’s the Ministry’s. Abbott! I order you to find a way to retain that man! I shall be very shirty if he leaves to work for one of his brothers.”

 

“He’s not even DMLE,” snapped Abbott. 

 

“No, but he’s the only one the Records Clerks fear,” Flint waved his arms madly. 

 

“It’s true,” said Wood. “But you’re wrong—if Percy leaves, I’ve got first dibs. He lost to Ollie in a poker game, ages ago, and it’s only a matter of time before you idiots drive him away.”

 

“Unfair,” howled Flint.

 

Arthur leaned towards Lucius. “Are they always like this?”

 

“Yup,” said Lucius. “Look, I have absolutely no time to govern your opinions, or your job, or where you go on vacation, because I’m far too busy pretending to give a damn about Flint’s latest insanity. If you insist on a chaperone when speaking with Amelia Bones, I shall be happy to pay Shirley to accompany you.”

 

“Thanks, but no,” said Arthur. “They might become friends, and then where would we be?”

 

“Far better off,” said Shirley loftily.

 

“Utterly screwed,” said Flint, flopping down on a chair. “Arthur, would you please go apologize to our colleagues? You can take Mel and Kingsley out to lunch, on my dime—you made Shack cry, you monster.”

 

“Oh, hell,” said Arthur. “The poor man! And Mel probably took her rage out on the Juniors. I’ll go grovel, if you don’t need me anymore.”

 

“As long as you’re fully aware of your rights,” said Lucius. “You told the Mistress Weaver you’d choose to build a life with me, and by gods, I’m holding you to it.”

 

“Yes, Lucius,” said Arthur. “You’ve taken a great deal off of m’mind—those codicils have weighed heavily on me since the beginning.”

 

“Good,” said Lucius, suddenly exhausted. “Could I possibly convince you to dine with Mac and Flint and I later this week? You are more than welcome to bring Amos, or even Bill along.”

 

“I may invite Jean Paul Delacour, actually,” said Arthur. “If you don’t mind?”

 

“That’d be grand,” said Flint cheerfully. “I’ve nearly got him convinced that I think his countrymen only eat snails and duck pate.”

 

Arthur shook his head in disbelief. “Whatever floats your boat, mate.” He strolled out of the office, whistling. “Shirley, m’dear, would you like me to tell m’son he owes you a drink, next time?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“No!” Roared Mac and Flint.

 

“Sorry, gents, I was raIsed to defer to the ladies,” said Arthur. He disappeared through the doors.

 

Mac said lowly, “Shirley, you said you’d not get involved.”

 

“Involved with what, precisely?” Abbott asked. 

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Uncle’s bout of self pity,” said Shirley. “And that’s all you need to know. Don’t you lot have work to do?”

 

“We should go talk to Amos,” said Lucius. “Or I should, anyway, because if anyone knows what when on back then, it’d be Arthur’s best friend.”

 

“That duffer?” Asked Flint incredulously. “What’ve they got in common?”

 

“He’s no duffer,” said Lucius. “Gulliver doesn’t employ duffers, for one thing. He just enjoys annoying people, and right now, he’s likely in the break room, debating on whether he should take a mid afternoon nap. Let’s go, before he locks himself in.”

* * *

 

Sure enough, Amos had retrieved his blanket and pillow from his cubby. He stopped short when he saw Lucius and Flint. “Weasley all right?”

 

“Yes,” said Lucius. “Don’t worry, he’d not chained to my desk, or anything—he’s gone to make amends with Bones and Shacklebolt.”

 

“Why would you chain him to your desk?” Asked Amos. “I mean, surely, a bed would be more comfortable.”

 

“The man’s wife just died,” said Flint. “Have some respect.”

 

“She would be the first to tell Malfoy that,” said Amos. “And then she’d probably insist on showing the best position for going down on him.” Flint sputtered.

 

“I know you’re trying to scare me off,” said Lucius patiently. “But I need your advice. Please, Amos.”

 

Amos leaned against the break room wall.“You do realize Artie’s my friend, right? And I’m always going to take his side, unless he’s acting like an utter idiot. And then I’ll pretend to take his side, anyway.”

 

“Yes, yes,” said Lucius. “I know, Amos, I’m the wolf in this fairy tale, and he’s the little girl, wearing red, all alone in the woods.”

 

“Eh. Little girls can take care of themselves, mate—don’t go making me feel sorry for the wolf. Have you met William’s little girl?”

 

“No, but I’m sure she’s a lovely young lady, just like her mother.”

 

“You don’t know Fleur, either, then. Dear God. They’ll eat you alive, Lucius.”

 

“Amos, really,” said Flint. “If you don’t plan to help, just say so. Then we can tell Gulliver that you’re deliberately stalling the flying carpet talks, and let him make your life miserable. We’re trying to help Weasley, and we can’t do that without clarifying matters first.”

 

Amos sighed.“Fine. I won’t betray any confidences, but I’ll help however I can. What’s this about?”

 

“What do you know about the contract?” Asked Lucius in a neutral tone.

 

“Standard Betrothal Contract, with six—possibly more— moronic codicils,” Amos said. “Signed on his eighth birthday, meant to go into effect the summer after we graduated. Money at stake, apparently, but Artie never mentioned an amount, so I doubt he knew. Your parents paid for his school expenses, an’ he was real self conscious over that. My parents gave him book certificates and clothes for his birthdays, so he’d have something other than just the school required materials.”

 

“His parents didn’t buy him anything?” Asked Flint, surprised.

 

“They did at first, but then when he asked them to pay for his school materials as well, because he didn’t like relying on the Malfoys’ charity, they stopped. Said he needed to make an effort to manage his own accounts.” Amos rolled his eyes. “I know scuttlebutt has it that Molly and Arthur bought second hand because they were poor, but really, it was just Arthur being Arthur. Man haunted rummage sales and second hand bookstores just to annoy his parents, at first, and then he grew to enjoy the hunt. My mum and him, they still go to estate sales and find bits and bobs that they can fix up.”

 

“My mother thought the sewing was rather clever. She admired his style,” said Lucius. “Remember, Flint, how she and your mother used to take vintage dresses along to Tatting to have them remade into more modern pieces? That was all Arthur’s fault. It drove the Weasleys absolutely wild; they were always begging my father to put his foot down, but Papa knew better than to tell Mother how she should dress. And he knew exactly how she’d react if he tried to tell my Betrothed how he should dress.”

 

“Arthur always thought your Mum was humoring him.”

 

“Mama never humored anyone anyone when it came to fashion. She once told me I dressed like a country vicar, and let me tell you, that’s not a compliment.”

 

Amos chuckled. “You really do. So! Why the interest in the contract? You’ve read it, I assume.”

 

“Yes,” said Lucius. “Both versions, in fact.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“The legal version, that the barrister has on file, contains no ‘moronic codicils’,” said Flint. “Arthur says that his father added those codicils. So, the question is—why? Did the Malfoys ask him to do so? If so, why weren’t they added to the real contract? Why would the Weasleys even agree to such restrictions? If not—well, what purpose do they serve?”

 

“I need to know before I even approach my parents,” said Lucius. “Because—those codicils just make me see red, Amos. I never heard a word of it, and if my parents had any part, I’m not sure I’ll be able to speak to them civilly.”

 

“Ah,” said Amos, shifting uneasily. “Well. I don’t know for sure, you understand, but I can tell you what my parents believed.”

 

“Anything that might be helpful would be greatly appreciated,” Flint pulled up a chair, and sat down. Amos and Lucius followed suit.

 

“Got a list of the codicils?” Asked Amos. Lucius fished the piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to the Hufflepuff.

 

Amos read it silently. He sighed. “Well, the quidditch thing—that’s what started it, you know. Remember your thirteenth birthday?”

 

“We played quidditch, and Flint here taught Arthur some seeker moves,” said Lucius. “It was the last good birthday, and that’s the only reason I remember. He was always sneaking off to read after that, but he really seemed to enjoy himself.”

 

“He was brilliant,” said Flint excitedly. “I never understood why he didn’t try out for his house team.”

 

“He came over the next day, and we snuck out to the orchard to race,” said Amos “The wind was high, but I had a new broom, so I didn’t think much of it. He used my mother’s Cleansweep—she hadn’t used it for awhile, so I didn’t think she’d care. Turns out the spells were on the blink, and he fell ten feet into the creek. Broke eighteen bones.”

 

“I don’t remember that,” said Lucius, bewildered.

 

“Because Arthur insisted it wasn’t your friends’ fault, and he didn’t want to be left out,” said Amos. “It might have blown over, but his mum overheard him tell me that he wanted to play for the Falmouth Falcons, because they had even faster brooms than the Gryffindor first string.” Amos paused, looking troubled. Lucius and Flint waited silently. Finally Amos said, “I never really understood, see, until Cedric. But Cedric’s the only child we could have, and he was our whole damn world. After—after him…” He trailed off, staring unseeingly at the far wall.

 

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” said Flint quietly. “Not if it hurts you. We know how much you miss him, right, Lucius?”

 

“Yes,” said Lucius. “I’m sorry, Amos. So very sorry.”

 

“Not your fault. Hurts not to talk about him, too! Anyway, Artie and I, we were real rough and tumble, as boys often are. My parents taught me first aid, because they saw injury as inevitable. The Weasleys—well, they’d lost two boys already, and Artie, he wasn’t big and strong like his brothers had been. He was small and scrappy, and had no fear whatsoever. I think that first codicil was just a gut reaction, and they truly never understood what they’d done. Reckon his parents just saw it as a passing fancy—they never realized that Arthur saw it as a double standard. A brand of ownership, if you will. His body wasn’t his own, anymore, not really. His Betrothed’s family owned it.”

 

“Merlin,” breathed Flint. “Lucius…”

 

“That was when he first started to shut down,” said Lucius slowly. “I came home that Christmas and tried invite him to come sledding; he said my parents wouldn’t want him to catch cold. Well, they wouldn’t have—they were alway on me to wear my hat and scarf, because I never wanted to bundle up. I didn’t think anything of it, Amos—just figured he had been feeling under the weather.”

 

“No,” said Amos, “He’d come over, and my parents would pretend they were taking us to country hotel to catch a panto, or concert, maybe go ice skating. We’d pack up, head Scotland, at one of the downhill resorts. He loves skiing and sledding, and he’s damn good on the black diamond runs.”

 

“I wish I’d known,” said Lucius. “We went to Switzerland every year, and Mama skied from dawn to dusk. Wore me out. Always hated that Narcissa just wanted to shop. Think the kids would enjoy a Christmas trip to the Alps?”

 

“They’d love it,” said Amos. “Charlie and Bill are probably the only ones at your level, though. The first war happened, and that made Molly much more cautious about letting the babies out of her sight.”

 

“Too bad,” said Flint. “But I can understand that, with so many missing or found dead. So, do you think the other codicils are similar?”

 

“Well, I think they were somehow related, but the real trouble started our fifth year. Did something happen after your graduation, Lucius? Because the Weasleys just—lost the script, and my parents were ready to kill ‘em.”

 

“Would it have been around October?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“i asked my parents if they thought Arthur might be interested in working alongside me as an ICW Hit wizard,” said Lucius. “The Weasleys said they’d test Arthur, but—Mother thought they weren’t particularly enthusiastic, and Father said perhaps Arthur had another career in mind. But—Arthur never talked about anything, so I thought he might not have decided.“

 

“He just never talked about anything real, with anyone who might say something around his parents or you,” said Amos. “He thought if your parents didn’t know anything, they couldn’t take anything else from him. His parents pushed him more and more to spend time with you, and he figured the only excuse anyone would accept was schoolwork. So we did schoolwork. We revised, all summer and every holiday. I got fourteen NEWTs, Lucius, and my parents would’ve been over the moon if they hadn’t known I was terrified of losing my best friend to suicide.”

 

“Oh, gods,” said Lucius miserably. “And I was always complimenting him on his grades!”

 

“Yup. He thought you were just thrilled he wasn’t an embarrassment in that regard. Anyway, I’m not sure what happened, but he and his father had some sort of fight the summer after sixth year about careers. Whatever it was, it was a bad one. He ended up at my house for remainder of the summer, and my parents cut the Weasleys dead. That’s the last codicil, and no one mentioned that contract again, until the day they eloped, and Cedrella showed up to beg my mother to tell her Arthur was alive.”

 

“Were your parents in on it?” Asked Flint.

 

“No. And they got right shirty with me when they realized I’d thought we best not trust them. Told me they’d been talking to our lawyer about taking Arthur and I out of ICW reach, though maybe I shouldn’t tell you that. But it would’ve been no use anyway.”

 

“Whyever not?” Lucius raked his hand through his hair. “It sounds like a cracking idea to me.”

 

“Because Arthur would never abandon his child,” said Amos simply. 

 

“What? But—Bill was premature!”

 

“Muriel Prewett was the one who spread that around, but how many eleven pound preemies have you heard of?”

 

“None,” said Flint. “Good grief, Marcus was ten pounds, and m’wife has never let me forget it!”

 

“Mm-hm. They didn’t elope as some sort of dastardly plot. Arthur figured he wasn’t going to give you anymore than he had to, and anyway, he was scared out of his wits about what you’d do to him behind closed doors. He picked a classmate that he knew liked to fool around, one that was a jolly good sport, and asked her if she’d like a tumble with a fellow ginger. When she got pregnant, she offered to allow you to adopt the child. Arthur figured you’d never love Billy as your own, and what would happen to the child if Arthur died? So…”

 

“So William could’ve been mine all along,”Lucius fished out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

 

Amos blinked at him. “Not really what I expected you to say.”

 

“All I ever wanted was Artie,” Lucius said. “All I ever wanted, really, was to be the one living in that Burrow, teaching our children to play quidditch, and gobstones. I could’ve given him that, see, and I would’ve fought for him if I’d known he just wanted to protect William. But I figured I had no chance against true love, and so we Malfoys gave up the minute we saw Molly and Arthur together. We’ve always been partial to happy endings, even if—even if they aren’t our own.”

 

“Life is what you make of it,” said Amos tiredly. “I don’t know about your parents, but if they take the Weasleys’ side, you’re going to have to decide what’s more important—what’s right, and what’s easy.”

 

“Arthur,” said Lucius. “It’s always, always been Arthur, and my parents would be the first to say that.”

 

“Then remind them of that when you talk to them. Can I get back to work now?”

 

“Yes. Thanks, Amos.”

 

“Anytime.”

 

Flint heaved a sigh once Amos had disappeared down the hall. “I don’t even know where you should start, mate.”

 

“I do,” said Lucius. “Where I left off. With William.”

 

* * *

 

When he got home that night, he wrote a letter to William and Fleur, inviting them to lunch at an establishment of their choosing. Then he pulled the ICW lockbox out from beneath his bed, and retrieved a crystal memory vial, which he filled with a duplicate of their discussion with Amos. He put the box back, and wrote out a missive for his father.

 

_ Dear Papa, _

 

_ Please stay away for now. The situation is quite precarious, and you cannot—I repeat—cannot tell the Weasleys about this letter. If you do so, I will assume that you do not wish of any sort of relationship with your only son. I am already rather disturbed about certain events that may have happened unbeknownst to me many years ago, and I devoutly hope that the faith I have put in you and Mama is not a terrible mistake. You will be involved in this matter only as far as I allow, because I cannot face the potential consequences of failure. Please watch the memory enclosed in full, and consider carefully what I would consider an acceptable response. _

 

_ Sincerely, _

_ Luc _

 

He sent gave the missive and vial to his owl, and then lay in bed, wondering if he’d made the right decision. At half past two, his owl dropped the response on  his chest:

 

_ Lucius, my beloved son, _

 

_ We must talk in person, when your schedule allows, but your mother wishes for me to address a few urgent points: _

 

  1. _There were absolutely no codicils that we agreed to at any point in time._
  2. _We love Arthur as a son, even after all these years, and had he come to us with any of this, we would have removed him from the Weasleys’ house. I do not care if he enjoyed bargain hunting, or dressing a ridiculous robes (remember the bloody striped one that made him look like a candy cane?)—I only cared that he was happy, and knew that he could count on our support._
  3. _Your mother will stay out of it for now, but please, please, let us know when the situation stabilizes. We will aid you in any way that you permit, and Contract or no, we will help Arthur and Molly should they need our support. I’d imagine the children have somehow discovered the truth—if Arthur wishes, I will legally adopt him, and legitimize his children. It is the very least I could do, to make amends for my own neglect. And your mother is already plotting an Alpine holiday, should we get the chance to ski with all of you._
  4. _Tell him we would’ve attended every damn game, decked out in his team’s colors. Even if it had been the Cannons!!_



 

_ Papa _

 

Lucius breathed a sighed of relief. “Oh, thank Merlin,” he muttered. Then he read it again, and realized that his parents’ hadn’t heard of Molly’s death. They had no idea about why the contract had even come up! Should he tell them? No—best not—not until he and Arthur were more sure of their relationship.


	4. Brotherly Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco worries. Bill and George are good big brothers.

 

Draco heaved a sigh.

 

His boss glanced up from his cauldron. “All right there?”

 

“Yes,” said Draco. 

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Because that’s the eighth time you’ve sighed in the past hour. Either you’re bored, your girlfriend broke up with you, or you agree with me about Bill’s new shirt,” said George.

 

“What’s wrong with my shirt?” Asked Bill suspiciously. 

 

“Oh, nothing,” said George. “We think it looks very stylish. Right, Donald?”

 

“Right,” muttered Draco. Why on earth had he thought Donald was a good alias? And why did Bill let his wife pick out his clothes? Sometimes, to be fair, Fleur had excellent taste, but the turquoise silk shirt with the billowing sleeves was—well, perhaps there was a man out there that could wear it and not look silly, but that man probably wasn’t English.

 

“Fleur wants to make a good impression on Lucius,” said Bill. “Or, more like, she wants to give him a taste of what life will be like under her despotic rule.”

 

“Poor bastard,” George shook his head. “Think we should warn him?”

 

“He married Narcissa,” said Bill. “If he hasn’t learned by now that women are scary, there’s no hope.”

 

“Your wife is forcing you to wear that shirt to lunch with Mr. Malfoy,” said Draco doubtfully. “To intimidate him?”

 

Bill blinked, nonplussed. “Ah, also, possibly to punish me, because I told him we’d meet him today without consulting her first. She claims it’s because it’s such short notice to find a babysitter, but I know it’s because she wanted new robes for the occasion. You call your old man ‘Mr. Malfoy’?

 

Draco spilled ink all over the inventory. “Oh, fuck,” he moaned. “There goes my entire weekend.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” said George. “Ron and Harry are helping out this weekend, and I need something really unpleasant for them to do, because their initial reaction to our parents’ joyful news was not, in fact, very joyful.”

 

“Yeah, I was a little worried Ron’s heart would give out,” said Bill. “That shade of puce does not normally exist in nature. Although I still think you’re punishing the wrong siblings. Ginny and Charlie did not need to speculate about the size of Lucius’…er…equipment.”

 

“Whatever, that was hilarious,” said George. “I can’t believe Harry actually puked when Fleur said that Pop would look adorable pregnant. I mean, I could’ve done with Hermione’s graphic, in depth lecture on the Male Fecundity Potion, and I still think you bastards warned her. There’s no way she just happened to know that.”

“I didn’t, I swear,” Bill snickered. “She trolls best, when she has no idea she’s trolling at all, anyway.”

 

“She really does,” agreed Draco. “Um—are you—that is to say—how long have you known my true identity?”

 

Both men gave him pitying looks. “Since you applied for the job,” said George slowly.

 

“Hard to miss, given that at least twenty of your former schoolmates have warned us you were you, Pansy Parkinson cornered Fleur to warn her about Hufflepuff hussies that steal men, and seventy Hufflepuffs signed a petition Susie passed round for fair and equitable treatment of her boyfriend,” said Bill. “Your girlfriend, by the way, is scary. Adorable, but scary.”

 

“Why have I been pretending to be a nerdy Ravenclaw then?” Moaned Draco.

 

“For fun?” George shrugged. “To win Percy over? To kill Ron with boredom? To kill Harry with paranoia? I know not the mysterious ways of albino ferrets.”

 

“I hate you,” snarled Draco.

 

“Is that any way to speak to your older and wiser brother?” George chortled.

 

“Say, if you hate him, does that mean you’ll leave Wheezes to found a warding company with me?” Asked Bill.

 

“No. Because you’re even worse. And I find that shirt personally offensive.”

 

“So do I,” said Bill. “How will your dad see it, though?”

 

“He’ll be blissfully unaware,” said Draco. “If he had enough imagination to see that as a threat, Grandmother would’ve gotten through to him ages ago.” He banished as much ink as possible from his hands and desk. “So, what do you think of it?”

 

“The shirt?”

 

“No, you asshole, the marriage,” said Draco.

 

“Oh,” said Bill. “Well, as the oldest son, I feel duty bound to tell you that I have full confidence in our parental units to act like mature, sensible individuals—“

 

“Bollocks,” said Draco. “You think they’ll make a right mess of this too, then.”

 

“Well, it is Pop,” said George. “Love the dear old boy, but he bottles things up, and then…”

 

“Pop goes the Weasel,” said Bill. “What about you?”

 

“Dad’s sensitive,” said Draco unhappily. “First, he’s upset that Mr. Weasley never wanted him, and then he’s upset that Arthur’s parents hurt him, and he did nothing to stop it. Your Pop could really hurt him, and I don’t mean physically. I don’t want to move out, really, because I want to support Dad, but…what if my presence makes things worse?”

 

“Just give them space,” said Bill. “Come ‘round to Shell Cottage if you want company. My baby siblings don’t stop by, ever, because they know Fleur will attempt to civilize them. You can already dress yourself, you chew with your mouth shut, and you have a sensible fiancee—you’re already domesticated. And Vicky likes you.”

 

“Vicky barely knows me. She just likes that I sneak her fizzing whizbees,” said Draco. “And I have no idea how to be an uncle. Um—that is to say, it’s not that I expect to be considered her uncle, just—other people will think I am—“

 

The Weasley men chuckled. “Oh, no,” said George. “The princess needs more men under her thumb—gives the rest of us poor bastards breathing room.”

 

“You’re going to be our brother,” said Bill, “Whether you like it or not.”

 

Draco should’ve , probably,found that pronouncement more threatening than anything else. But instead, he swallowed around the knot in his throat and stammered, “Th-thanks. Really.”

 

George slapped him on the back. “You’re welcome. Now, what I do when I’m feeling all emotional like a girl—“

 

“Fleur and Susan might hear you,” hissed Draco. “My gods, do you have no self preservation at all?”

 

Bill choked back laughter at the horrified look on Draco’s face. “We Weasleys like a bit of excitement. And it wouldn’t do for the ladies to get bored. Come out into the shop from with me, kid, and let’s see if we can make this shirt’s demise look like a tragic accident.”

 

Draco followed the two men—his brothers!—into the store front. Maybe, he thought, as he began to demo some Weasley pranks for a group of squealing children, just maybe, this would have a happy ending after all.

 


	5. Mrs. Fleur Weasley, Daughter-in-law at large

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius dines with Bill and Fleur.

William Weasley, Lucius decided, was absolutely nuts.

 

Abraxas Malfoy would love Arthur’s eldest, gods help them all.

 

He watched as Bill cheerfully interrogated the waiter about the fresh catch of the day. Was it ethically sourced? Truly fresh? Properly seared? Not that any of those questions would’ve been out of order. No, what made it absolutely bizarre was the fact the man was wearing a one armed blue satin blouse, and beside him sat a glacially calm Fleur Delacour. Lucius had been married to Narcissa Black Malfoy for thirty years, and he’d been raised by a woman who had wifely vengeance down to an art form. He knew a marital feud when he saw one. 

 

As the relieved waiter finally managed to escape, Lucius leaned towards Bill. “So. May I say sir, what a unique shirt! The combination of asymmetry and charred silk...such a daring choice. Surely you did not acquire it ready made!”

 

The younger man grinned. “Why, thank you. Fleur acquired the shirt with two sleeves, but, you know, I strive to be a trend setter. I knew roughly what I wanted to do, of course. Draco advised against the fire—he’s far more risk averse than I would have thought! But George said the spark holes really added a certain something, and I must say, I’m enjoying the ventilation.” He flinched minutely as his wife hissed and kicked him beneath the table.

 

Lucius kept his expression pleasantly interested—he had no desire to end up on the French woman’s bad side—but inwardly he sniggered like a school boy. In other words, Delacour had bought the ridiculous garment to punish William for some minor infraction, and William had decided to destroy it with the help of The Wheezes’ staff. Draco was still caught up in the throes of young love, or else Susan had befriended Delacour. Delacour, much like Lady Amanda, refused to lose, so she’d pretended that she loved the “alterations” and forced William to wear it to dinner with Lucius. “It does look very cool,” he finally said, struggling to keep his face straight. “I’m not sure if I can pull it off, of course, but I simply insist on taking you along to my tailor. He’d be delighted to learn more about the fashions of youth.” Of course he meant: I’ll buy you any shirt you’d like to replace the perfectly sensible one Delacour shredded before she went shopping.

 

“What a splendid notion,” cried Bill.

 

“Men,” Fleur burst out. “Impossible! Imbeciles! I must powder my nose; while I am gone, you shall consider carefully your next words!” She rose and stalked off.

 

Bill and Lucius broke into laughter. “You’re a lucky, lucky man,” gasped Lucius. “To have survived this long, I mean.”

 

Bill shrugged. “Pure skill, old bean. Being the eldest son of Molly Weasley taught me all sorts of life skills.”

 

Lucius sobered. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Mr. Weasley.”

 

“Call me Bill,” said the younger man. “You will, after all, be family soon. Mum was sick, Mr. Malfoy. We all knew it. I suspect that if you find the courage to breach the topic of Mum’s illness with Pop, he’ll tell you he felt more relief than grief at her passing. She outlived her original prognosis because she had such a terrific will to live, but her decline was a terrible thing to witness.”

 

“He did not look good,” muttered Lucius. “Please, call me Lucius.”

 

Bill shrugged. “Lucius. He was tired and stressed before she got sick. I don’t think he ever expected a promotion, and then when he received one, he didn’t want to turn it down.”

 

“But he’s so clever,” protested Lucius. “Of course they would eventually promote him!”

 

“Interesting notion coming from you.” Bill cocked his head, eyeing Lucius warily.

 

“I don’t, of course, expect you—or your father—to believe me, but I have always respected his fine mind,” said Lucius. “Always felt a little inferior, if you want to know the truth. Malfoys have a long history of intellectualism—I dabble in runes, and history, but Arthur is the one who could hold his own with my parents.”

 

“He’s smart,” agreed Bill. “Never really understood just how bright he was until I started at Gringotts. I thought he’d been sporty like Charlie.”

 

Lucius snorted. “Never joined the quidditch team. Never figured out how he even freckled, in the summer, because he never wanted to leave the library. I understand, now...but then all I could think was that my future spouse hated everything I enjoyed, and I’d never be able to keep up with his brain.”

 

Bill studied him. Finally he said, astonished, “You wanted him!”

 

Lucius sagged in his chair. “Of course,” he snapped. “I loved him, Bill. He’ll never believe me now, not after what his parents did to him. Not after the war, and Frederick, and Molly. But if I’d had any idea—any idea at all—that he would’ve allowed me to adopt you, I would’ve given Molly anything she wanted in return—anything in my power— if she’d trusted me with her son.” He drummed his fingers against the table nervously. He disliked feeling vulnerable, but he knew honesty was the best policy.

 

Fleur stalked back to the table. “Well? What have you to say for yourselves?”

 

“Lucius loved Dad all those years ago,” said Bill dazedly. “He would’ve been willing to adopt me.”

 

“I am still willing,” said Lucius. He braced himself for anger, or worse—laughter. “I know the Malfoy name is—well, it may not help you. Politically, socially. But—should you ever decide you’d like to use it, it’s yours, sir.”

 

Bill raised an eyebrow. “I’d use your name because if you chose to be my parent, Lucius. Because you love my father. Because you want us. No other reason. I don’t give a damn about what it can or can’t give me, in terms of influence. But it’s far too soon to talk about that.”

 

Lucius nodded slowly. “I know. I just—I want this to work, Bill. I’ve no right to insert my self into Arthur’s domestic life, I know. But...to be frank, I’ve been lonely. I don’t want to sit alone while my husband is out playing with his grandchildren.”

 

“That won’t happen,” said Bill. “Not unless you want it. I’ve already told Draco that he’ll be my brother, and my kid’s uncle, whether he likes it or not. But there are a few issues I’m concerned about, to be honest.”

 

“Such as?” Lucius’ stomach clenched. Surely Arthur had told his son Lucius hadn’t really been a Death Eater?

 

“Dad says he doesn’t wish to live in the Manor,” said Bill. “Even as a kid, he was uncomfortable there. Large and—Er—“

 

“Formal, drafty, and dreary,” said Lucius. “One of the reasons Mother and Father travelled so much, in fact. I don’t live there anymore, William—after the war, I leased it to Mungo’s with my parents’ permission. Narcissa couldn’t bear to stay. We bought a cottage in the Cotswolds and were preparing to move when—well—“ He swallowed. “She never lived there, so Arthur need not worry about competing with her ghost. And I’m more than willing to allow him to redecorate if he’d like.”

 

Bill groaned. “Oh, gods, don’t tell him that.”

 

“Your Father has excellent taste,” said Fleur chidingly.

 

“Yes, but I reckon Lucius would rather not put up with constant painting and puttering around.”

 

“If it made him see it as his home, I’d be more than happy to do so,” said Lucius. “But—I want to spend time with him as well, so perhaps I shall wait to tell him he can remodel.”

 

Bill nodded slowly. “That dovetails nicely with my second concern. Look, I know he loves his job. I know that you work hard as well. But—if you both just stay in your own little worlds, you won’t build any sort of foundation. If either of you come home after eight, you’ll never eat dinner together, or play chess, or adopt a dog.”

 

“You sound like Draco,” said Lucius. “I’ll work on it, all right? But I can hardly tell your father to take time off work. Not after the whole codicils mess.”

 

“Make him want to take time off work,” said Bill. “Tell him you’re cooking dinner or going with us for ice cream or taking the dog for ramble.”

 

“Plan a date and then inform him when he should show up,” said Fleur coolly. “He is a Weasley. If you give him a choice, make sure you like all options. Zey fancy themselves to be unpredictable, you see.”

 

“We are unpredictable,” exclaimed Bill. “I’m wearing the shirt, aren’t I?”

 

“Which is exactly what I wanted,” said Fleur sweetly. “Now your stepfather shall take you shopping! And you wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings, would you, so you’ll wear whatever he picks out for you. I trust Monsieur Malfoy’s judgment.”

 

“And if I prove myself unworthy, you’ll have reason to oversee my wardrobe as well,” said Lucius, chuckling. “You’re a lucky man, William.”

 

“You almost sound like you mean that,” said Bill suspiciously. 

 

“Oh, I do,” Lucius grinned. “I didn’t marry Miss Narcissa Black because I wanted a docile wallflower, you know! And I didn’t go along with the betrothal because I thought Arthur would be a meek and mild bureaucrat. Please tell me there’s some of that Weasley spirit still buried there, under his grief?”

 

“Oh, he’s still Arthur Weasley, all right,” said Bill, amused. “Be careful for what you wish for—if only for your son’s sake. Poor Draco thinks parents can be managed.”

 

“To be fair, he has Miss Bones on his side,” Lucius sighed.

 

“She is formidable,” Fleur said coolly. “I am sure she will agree with me when I say that you’d better treat my father in law well—or else.”

 

Lucius nodded, suppressing a grin. His mother would just adore Mrs. Fleur Weasley. The horror, the horror! “Of course, Madam. Er—would it reassure Arthur to see the cottage, do you think? How should I approach that?”

 

Fleur and Bill traded a loaded glance. “Well,” said Bill thoughtfully. “Susan is certainly the sort of woman he understands. If she wishes to host a tea this Saturday, and you tell him that you’re a spineless worm afraid of her reaction if you fail to convince him to attend, he might take pity on you.”

”He certainly shall, when I take her side,” said Fleur. “Zat man! And you! Not giving your loved ones ze option to witness the Tying of ze Cords!”

Lucius winced. He should’ve known better than to think the women would let that pass. “Fine. But please don’t make it overly formal. I want him to feel at ease.”

”Dad won’t feel at ease no matter what,” said Bill bluntly. “The best thing you can do is make yourself his ally. Sneak him a beer, find an excuse to get him to go out into the garden. It shouldn’t be hard—Fleur and Susie really bring out the spineless worm in you idiots. They’re really not that scary, honestly.”

”Oh, really?” Cooed Fleur. “Perhaps age has brought them wisdom.”

Lucius sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Son, please don’t provoke her. Women don’t like to be thought of as “not that scary”. They set out to prove you wrong, and I, for one, enjoy the quiet life.”

”And yet you’re marrying Dad,” said Bill. “Good luck with that, mate.”

“You haven’t met your grandparents,” muttered Lucius. “Life with Arthur, your lot, and Susan Bones is a day at the spa by comparison.” Much his distress, Bill looked intrigued. “Merlin, you’re going to ask for an introduction aren’t you?”

”George and I agree on that topic. Either they’re people we want as family, or arseholes who can’t be let off scot free,” said Bill. “As I said, your son is risk averse. He said we didn’t know what Lady Amanda was like, and that she is unbeatable. He doesn’t understand Weasleys well at all for someone who thinks of himself as Ronnie’s archenemy. George thinks she sounds like a delight. A delightful relation or target...well, time will tell, and anyway, they’re not mutually exclusive.” He grinned wickedly.

 

”How do you live with such insanity?” Lucius asked Fleur.

 

”Ze sex helps,” she shrugged. “Also, eet means zat anyone who marries into ze family will make an interesting friend. Ze boring ones flee like rats on a river barge.”

”Er...” Lucius looked at Bill, puzzled.

”Like rats aboard a sinking ship, honey.”

“Zat makes no sense,” insisted Fleur. “Rats can swim. River barges are feelthy, and boring, and no self respecting rat would be caught dead on one, when there a much cleaner cruise ships with better food nearby.”

Lucius blinked. “Actually, that makes an odd sort of sense.”

”No, it doesn’t,” said Bill. “But here comes the food, and I don’t want to talk about rats right now. Fleur, I assume you and Susan will take care of the arrangements?”

”We cannot leave it up to you idiots,” she sniffed. “You will be informed when to show up. You will make sure to do so.”

Lucius nodded in agreement. Merlin, his mother really did a number on him because he actually found it very reassuring to find himself under his daughter-in-law’s thumb. The ladies got shite done, that was all there was to it!


End file.
